Fic: Reflections (1/1)
Title: Reflections
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Claire/Jack
Word Count: 1,474
Summary: He sees himself in her; can’t find himself anywhere. For “The Shephards" 'zine, coordinated by the lovely and talented crickets, and for the cliche_bingo Prompt - Soulbonding. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: It was an absolute joy and privilege to write something new for the lovely ‘zine that crickets put together; again, I suggest downloading the entire compilation, if you haven’t already.
Reflections
It starts slowly, guiltlessly; there is no shame in the way she trembles, the way she shakes until he wraps his arms around her shoulders, the freckles on her bare skin like sand, as scattered and small as she makes herself in his embrace, and she folds herself against his body and lets her tears soak through his sleep-shirt, warm and heart-wrenching as she bows her head, listens to rush of air as his inhales, exhales; syncs her lungs inside his own.
The stray tangles of her hair dance along the still-healing gash at his neckline; she’s lost to the world, and doesn’t notice when he tenses, seizes at the touch. He spend the rest of the night watching her, wondering why the cadence of her breath reminds him of the tides -- he hates the sea.
Come morning, she’s still dreaming; rubbing his wrist idly, looking for an absent weight against the bone, he studies his image in the mirror: the scratch below his jaw is gone.
Having a woman in the house is different; strange. She’s not Juliet, never could be -- the coloring works, but that’s where the similarities end. They walk differently, don’t hold themselves in the same way; they smile differently, at different things, and where Juliet had smelled of spice and allure, Claire carries a strangely homey scent about her, like flowers and warmth.
He doesn’t remember all that well, anymore, but he’s fairly sure that he looks at Claire more than he’d looked at Juliet -- studies her like a masterpiece, a work of art he doesn’t understand but feels connected to, like the artist who forgets his work: there’s something he lost somewhere, elusive, and she might have it; she feels like the closest fit he’s even known, and so he watches her, notices her details -- tries to find the jagged edge that matches his own.
Sometimes, there are reflections: moments where he knows what she’s thinking just because he, too, bites his lip when he’s anxious; because David always brushes his hair behind his left ear when he’s lying to be polite. She likes her coffee black, and chocolate milk with her cheerios, and she rolls her ankles with nervous energy, just like he does. It’s bizarre, really, except for the way that it settles warm in the pit of his stomach, the way it spreads around him like a touch of the familiar, the promise of something real, something safe.
Other times, though, she’s unreadable, inscrutable, and he doesn’t know her; a half, after all, can never be a whole, and she’s all stranger to him, in the end. It takes him a while -- too long -- to realize that it’s far from a detriment, a shortcoming: it’s a gift, really, a joy; because when he gives up looking, that’s when he sees the shape of her eyes, the shade of her skin, the curve of her neck -- he sees the things that are uniquely her, that no one can claim, can subsume.
Just her.
It takes less time than it should before the far side of his bed is indented, curved to the shape of her hips, the exaggerated curve of her silhouette as she wobbles, fit to bursting, her due date looming in the back of his mind -- he remembers his ex, swollen with their son, the way her breathes were heavier at night, her sleep either fleeting, fragile, or sound like the dead: Claire, though -- she’s different. Her breath comes in little puffs, sighs -- she sleeps soundly, a hand on her belly at all times: protective, almost afraid.
It doesn’t escape him that when he drifts close enough to her that they share warmth, space -- air, as he breathes out and catches her curls in the stream -- that she calms, that her body melts and her lips curve in the moonlight, the reddish glow from the clock at his bedside; he soothes her.
It doesn’t escape his notice that it’s becoming harder -- every moment, every day -- to write whatever pulls, stretches in the space between them off as something platonic; as a familial bond, something genetic or bequeathed. This is something different, something strange and shocking and scandalous and sure, and he can’t avoid it or ignore it, can’t wish it away.
He can’t ignore that, when she smiles in her sleep as he hovers, exhales against the shell of her ear, that his own heart trembles, the stomach plummets, and he feels both fearful and certain in ways he’s never known before; in ways he doesn’t want to lose.
When he kisses her at her temple, lets the bridge of his nose trail the soft cup of her jaw as the purse of his lips draws breath off of the corner of her mouth; when his lashes brush the pillow of her cheekbones, she doesn’t wake. When he lets his mouth press soft against her own, he barely notices whether there’s any resistance, any response in kind; wonders whether she can feel the pounding, the throbbing beat that resonates in his lips, rails against the pressure of his kiss; when he pulls back, though, her eyes are open.
Things become clear, after that -- oddly black and white; and for the first time in his life, Jack knows exactly what he wants.
He understands, suddenly, what it all means: why, when the nausea spikes at the back of his throat, he drinks her in deeper instead of pulling away; why he can’t distinguish between her panting and his own moans -- why it feels somehow significant, the way his right hand threads hers in his own and holds her palm against his beating heart, as he measures her pulse at the center of her heat as he slides a finger between her thighs and strokes fast; can’t outstrip the wild rhythm of her blood thrumming, her muscles shivering around him until everything stops and he wonders, mourns for a world where he never knew her, never felt her touch.
He understands, in the way that he catches his breath in the middle of the night: with his head tipped low against her stomach, the stretch of her skin against the life inside warm, sweat-slick as her breasts heave, slung low with the anticipation of motherhood as she fights for air, as he sucks in the taste of them: him sticky against the sheets near her knees where he’d finished himself, while her wetness clings musky, strong below his chin.
Wrong, so fucking wrong; but Christ, he can’t own it, can’t deny it -- she’s half of him, and it’s the half that he’s been missing: wrapped up and hidden away in her. Because the things that separate them make her beautiful; and the things they share -- the things that are ugly, that are broken in him -- those are the things she makes right.
It’s not a question; there are no considerations to be made.
He waits for her in bed, and the darkness of night isn’t a shroud, anymore; isn’t made of shadows in which to hide. She comes into his room; and if he thinks about it hard enough, closes his eyes, he can feel the trembling, the little earthquakes of her steps that shake him to the core as she approaches; the shudder of his pulse like her footfalls on the floorboards, and he breathes, breathes -- she’s all sunshine and stale air, still: the salt of the coastline and the smog of the city, sweet and coarse and innocent, debauched with her lost eyes at sea, the swell of her belly. She’s the best and worst of all the things in the world, and Jack doesn’t quite love her for it, but he thinks that maybe, someday, he could.
He’s pretty fucking sure that he could.
She stretches out beside him, and he rolls into her on instinct -- so soon, it has to mean something, has to. And sometimes, when they’re staring nose to nose, half-cross eyed and sucking in each other’s air -- sometimes he thinks he sees himself in her, really sees: not a reflection of heredity, but something deeper, fuller. Sometimes, he thinks he sees what he could be, in her; sometimes, he thinks he can tell when she sees the same in him.
And all the rest, the fragments that remain; they’re memories, all the things he’s forgotten, but he doesn’t need them anymore. Because this is more than they will ever be, than anyone will ever understand.
He inhales, lingers in the scent of her, and tries to sleep -- and there’s nowhere else he needs to be, needs to go; there’s nothing he needs to do anymore.
Just be.
And it seems absurd, really, but the fact remains: looking back upon it all, the world hadn’t felt quite real, until she’d found him; made him whole.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Claire/Jack
Word Count: 1,474
Summary: He sees himself in her; can’t find himself anywhere. For “The Shephards" 'zine, coordinated by the lovely and talented crickets, and for the cliche_bingo Prompt - Soulbonding. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: It was an absolute joy and privilege to write something new for the lovely ‘zine that crickets put together; again, I suggest downloading the entire compilation, if you haven’t already.
Reflections
It starts slowly, guiltlessly; there is no shame in the way she trembles, the way she shakes until he wraps his arms around her shoulders, the freckles on her bare skin like sand, as scattered and small as she makes herself in his embrace, and she folds herself against his body and lets her tears soak through his sleep-shirt, warm and heart-wrenching as she bows her head, listens to rush of air as his inhales, exhales; syncs her lungs inside his own.
The stray tangles of her hair dance along the still-healing gash at his neckline; she’s lost to the world, and doesn’t notice when he tenses, seizes at the touch. He spend the rest of the night watching her, wondering why the cadence of her breath reminds him of the tides -- he hates the sea.
Come morning, she’s still dreaming; rubbing his wrist idly, looking for an absent weight against the bone, he studies his image in the mirror: the scratch below his jaw is gone.
Having a woman in the house is different; strange. She’s not Juliet, never could be -- the coloring works, but that’s where the similarities end. They walk differently, don’t hold themselves in the same way; they smile differently, at different things, and where Juliet had smelled of spice and allure, Claire carries a strangely homey scent about her, like flowers and warmth.
He doesn’t remember all that well, anymore, but he’s fairly sure that he looks at Claire more than he’d looked at Juliet -- studies her like a masterpiece, a work of art he doesn’t understand but feels connected to, like the artist who forgets his work: there’s something he lost somewhere, elusive, and she might have it; she feels like the closest fit he’s even known, and so he watches her, notices her details -- tries to find the jagged edge that matches his own.
Sometimes, there are reflections: moments where he knows what she’s thinking just because he, too, bites his lip when he’s anxious; because David always brushes his hair behind his left ear when he’s lying to be polite. She likes her coffee black, and chocolate milk with her cheerios, and she rolls her ankles with nervous energy, just like he does. It’s bizarre, really, except for the way that it settles warm in the pit of his stomach, the way it spreads around him like a touch of the familiar, the promise of something real, something safe.
Other times, though, she’s unreadable, inscrutable, and he doesn’t know her; a half, after all, can never be a whole, and she’s all stranger to him, in the end. It takes him a while -- too long -- to realize that it’s far from a detriment, a shortcoming: it’s a gift, really, a joy; because when he gives up looking, that’s when he sees the shape of her eyes, the shade of her skin, the curve of her neck -- he sees the things that are uniquely her, that no one can claim, can subsume.
Just her.
It takes less time than it should before the far side of his bed is indented, curved to the shape of her hips, the exaggerated curve of her silhouette as she wobbles, fit to bursting, her due date looming in the back of his mind -- he remembers his ex, swollen with their son, the way her breathes were heavier at night, her sleep either fleeting, fragile, or sound like the dead: Claire, though -- she’s different. Her breath comes in little puffs, sighs -- she sleeps soundly, a hand on her belly at all times: protective, almost afraid.
It doesn’t escape him that when he drifts close enough to her that they share warmth, space -- air, as he breathes out and catches her curls in the stream -- that she calms, that her body melts and her lips curve in the moonlight, the reddish glow from the clock at his bedside; he soothes her.
It doesn’t escape his notice that it’s becoming harder -- every moment, every day -- to write whatever pulls, stretches in the space between them off as something platonic; as a familial bond, something genetic or bequeathed. This is something different, something strange and shocking and scandalous and sure, and he can’t avoid it or ignore it, can’t wish it away.
He can’t ignore that, when she smiles in her sleep as he hovers, exhales against the shell of her ear, that his own heart trembles, the stomach plummets, and he feels both fearful and certain in ways he’s never known before; in ways he doesn’t want to lose.
When he kisses her at her temple, lets the bridge of his nose trail the soft cup of her jaw as the purse of his lips draws breath off of the corner of her mouth; when his lashes brush the pillow of her cheekbones, she doesn’t wake. When he lets his mouth press soft against her own, he barely notices whether there’s any resistance, any response in kind; wonders whether she can feel the pounding, the throbbing beat that resonates in his lips, rails against the pressure of his kiss; when he pulls back, though, her eyes are open.
Things become clear, after that -- oddly black and white; and for the first time in his life, Jack knows exactly what he wants.
He understands, suddenly, what it all means: why, when the nausea spikes at the back of his throat, he drinks her in deeper instead of pulling away; why he can’t distinguish between her panting and his own moans -- why it feels somehow significant, the way his right hand threads hers in his own and holds her palm against his beating heart, as he measures her pulse at the center of her heat as he slides a finger between her thighs and strokes fast; can’t outstrip the wild rhythm of her blood thrumming, her muscles shivering around him until everything stops and he wonders, mourns for a world where he never knew her, never felt her touch.
He understands, in the way that he catches his breath in the middle of the night: with his head tipped low against her stomach, the stretch of her skin against the life inside warm, sweat-slick as her breasts heave, slung low with the anticipation of motherhood as she fights for air, as he sucks in the taste of them: him sticky against the sheets near her knees where he’d finished himself, while her wetness clings musky, strong below his chin.
Wrong, so fucking wrong; but Christ, he can’t own it, can’t deny it -- she’s half of him, and it’s the half that he’s been missing: wrapped up and hidden away in her. Because the things that separate them make her beautiful; and the things they share -- the things that are ugly, that are broken in him -- those are the things she makes right.
It’s not a question; there are no considerations to be made.
He waits for her in bed, and the darkness of night isn’t a shroud, anymore; isn’t made of shadows in which to hide. She comes into his room; and if he thinks about it hard enough, closes his eyes, he can feel the trembling, the little earthquakes of her steps that shake him to the core as she approaches; the shudder of his pulse like her footfalls on the floorboards, and he breathes, breathes -- she’s all sunshine and stale air, still: the salt of the coastline and the smog of the city, sweet and coarse and innocent, debauched with her lost eyes at sea, the swell of her belly. She’s the best and worst of all the things in the world, and Jack doesn’t quite love her for it, but he thinks that maybe, someday, he could.
He’s pretty fucking sure that he could.
She stretches out beside him, and he rolls into her on instinct -- so soon, it has to mean something, has to. And sometimes, when they’re staring nose to nose, half-cross eyed and sucking in each other’s air -- sometimes he thinks he sees himself in her, really sees: not a reflection of heredity, but something deeper, fuller. Sometimes, he thinks he sees what he could be, in her; sometimes, he thinks he can tell when she sees the same in him.
And all the rest, the fragments that remain; they’re memories, all the things he’s forgotten, but he doesn’t need them anymore. Because this is more than they will ever be, than anyone will ever understand.
He inhales, lingers in the scent of her, and tries to sleep -- and there’s nowhere else he needs to be, needs to go; there’s nothing he needs to do anymore.
Just be.
And it seems absurd, really, but the fact remains: looking back upon it all, the world hadn’t felt quite real, until she’d found him; made him whole.